Podium Finish at the Shit Eating Olympics
Zabrakis refused to lay down the plastic.
Certain activities demand the utmost privacy.
Paying in cash he had emancipated from some
East Harlem bodega till almost three weeks ago.
Coolidge showed up a few hours later.
A pre-planned special knock and everything.
Zabrakis saw the look in his eyes right away.
Coolidge was looking for a podium finish
at the shit eating Olympics and
Zabrakis knew it.
Both refraining from exit strategy
colon activity so that they swelled like
sea monkeys in water.
Pouring a large fruit punch
and pulling down their pants.
Squatting over the floor at the foot of the bed
to let it all spill out.
Two separate steaming piles
like rust belt chimney stacks flooding
the hopeless skyline with the squirrely
chum bucket Rice-A-Roni hours.
Who has a map of the world
or anything else?
Mistakes are bred right into the
quilted dumb fabric.
And Coolidge sat down first.
Crossed his legs like some
stanky leg skunk weed Buddha
from the projects.
By the time Zabrakis joined him,
it was already too late.
Coolidge had grabbed a fat chunk out of
Zabrakis’ shit pile and tossed it in his mouth.
Swallowing without chewing like a stone cold pro.
Zabrakis began with a smaller stinking bit
and chewed it down without a chaser,
trying to psyche out his competitor.
Coolidge seemed unfazed.
Scooped up some of the liquid bits
and gurgled them before showing his tongue.
Zabrakis threw on the television
to noise out the sound of the shit
brown slurping.
Coolidge smiled.
He knew he had him.
The first to try their fruit punch
was finished.
You ever fuck floppy roadkill in the ass?
Zabrakis knew he had to mix things up.
No,
said Coolidge
without thinking.
Me neither,
said Zabrakis.
A wrench could be thrown into anything.
Zabrakis’ days as an auto mechanic
had taught him that.
Coolidge got up and went to the bathroom.
Through some water over his face
and thought of Niagara Falls.
How even simple water had gone over the
throaty cold edge of spectacle.
You need a minute?
Zabrakis smiled.
Not as much as you need an hour,
Coolidge shot back.
Before a sudden knock at the door.
Zabrakis got up to open it.
Heller walked past him into the room.
Pulled two forks out from his jacket pocket,
handing one to each.
Heller was their boss.
No telling how he learned about such
goings on.
But both Zabrakis and Coolidge
seemed relived to have forks now.
And some rules on down from the top.
Everything seemed half civilized.
As Heller dropped his pants
and squeezed out some big brown
anaconda that circled around the top
of itself like some bus station bathroom
runaway cupcake.
Zabrakis went first,
trying to get out in front
of such things.
If Coolidge wanted to gag,
he never showed it.
Heller offering a big promotion
to the winner to sweeten the deal.
Some floppy Please Do Not Disturb sign
gallows-hung over the door
to avoid any unwanted interruptions
from housekeeping.
Horror Sleaze Trash 